


Curiosity

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Holmes is too curious for his own good, Other, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, dub con, mysterious box, what did Watson get up to in Afghanistan?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-18 00:44:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/873773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes is bored and Watson is out for the day. In need of some stimulation, Holmes decides to search Watson's bedroom.</p>
<p>He finds a lot more <i>stimulation</i> than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Curiosity

**Author's Note:**

> This was for a prompt on the SH kink meme that - yeah, I just don't even know anymore. It just is, ok.

It is one of the first unspoken rules made on the day that Watson comes to live at 221b Baker Street. He will not enter Holmes's private room, and in return Holmes is expected to extend the same courtesy. As the years pass and the lines between them begin to blur, this is one rule that remains intact.

But boredom is a cruel mistress, and on one spectacularly hot day, when the thick, unmoving London air has driven Holmes to seek out stimulation from the tedious boredom, he ventures into Watson's bedroom in search of something new. Something exciting. The good doctor himself is away seeing to a patient (the exact specifics having escaped Holmes, as they are rarely interesting enough to be recalled), and Holmes is in desperate need of something to focus his mind. 

At first glance, Watson's abode seems appallingly normal. The room is kept tidy even without Mrs Hudson's interference, the sheets on the bed stiff and straight and clothing neatly folded. The only hint of a mess is in Watson's correspondence, which has been heaped in an untoward pile on the corner of his desk. From the doorway, Holmes can see a new letter from Watson's publisher, likely asking after the newest tome of his books. It remains unopened.

He prowls further into the room, not really expecting to find anything of interest. After so many years, Holmes doubts that Watson will have been able to hide something from him. He checks the normal hiding places: closet, the floorboards, beneath the bed. 

It is there that, contrary to his initial deduction, he finds something unusual. A box, just small enough to be forced under the bed. He pries at it for several minutes until it comes free. It is made of some dark wood that he does not recognize. A series of tiny, concentric holes have been poked in the top, and he spends some time wondering at the pattern - does it have meaning? is there a point? - before he continues his examination. The sides and top are smooth to the touch, and the only flaw is in a small notch in the wood on the left panel. Holmes runs a finger over it curiously, and the top lifts an inch.

"Interesting," Holmes mutters, raising an eyebrow at the ingenuity. He is utterly unprepared for what slides out through that gap: it is long and slender, whip-thin, almost like a serpent. Yet it has no face, just a small opening at the rounded tip from which a greyish fluid seeps. 

Almost like a tentacle, he realizes, catching it expertly between two fingers. It is cool to the touch, not unlike a snake, but smooth without scales. The colour is a deep brown, almost black, and the fluid is thick and viscous. His fingers slide easily when he touches it and then rubs them together. Furthermore, the tentacle displays some sense of awareness: it strokes his fingers and palm, the tip pressing greedily against his skin as though sampling, and it feels a little like being tickled.

Why on Earth does Watson have this hidden beneath his bed?

Thoroughly fascinated, Holmes pulls the lid up so that he can get a better look at what is inside.

This proves to be a mistake.

More tentacles, thicker than the first, catch him by the arms. Startled, he rears back as several more of the smaller ones emerge and begin tracing across his face, his throat, then worming their way beneath the collar of his clothing. He sits very still, cautious of the unexpectedly strong grip on his upper body, and silently catalogues the feel of the exploration. The tentacles leave behind more of that odd grey excretion on his skin wherever they touch, but they do not seek to harm. They are _curious_.

"Fascinating," he says out loud, wondering if this creature will understand human speech. Or perhaps it is an animal of some sort, learning by touch instead of words. "What are ymmmph!" 

His question is caught off abruptly when a searching tentacle slides across his lower lip and roughly plunges inside. Holmes tries to pull away, snapping his head back, but the tentacle follows. He can taste something odd and very strong, and he knows it is the greyish fluid that is unlikely to be fit for human consumption. He writhes, trying to use his strength to break free, but the grip of the tentacles is unexpectedly tight. The tentacle in his mouth is greedy and he closes his eyes, tries to focus on calming his racing heart and breathing through his nose lest he suffocate.

Watson... where is Watson? Why has he hidden this box beneath his bed? What is this creature? Unbidden, a myriad of images flash rapidly through his mind: dear Watson, returning home to find his dead body. The inevitable call to Scotland Yard, the telegram to Mycroft. Perhaps they will know the culprit, this embarrassing defeat of Sherlock Holmes, or will they spend their days wondering how Holmes came to an end?

Holmes grunts around the tentacle and tries again, unsuccessfully, to twist free. The tentacles only clutch him tighter. One of the smaller tentacles exploring beneath his clothes brushes across one of his nipples, and had he the ability to do so he would've gasped at the unexpected jolt of pleasure. His nipples have never been especially sensitive before, but just from that one touch he can feel them hardening. As though attracted by the change, the tentacle returns to examine his right nipple. A second one slides across his chest to investigate his left.

Dear god, Holmes thinks, and he begins to struggle anew. He can feel his cock beginning to swell as the exploratory touches of the tentacles leave a trail of sparks across his skin. Distantly he thinks about the greyish fluid, how it had burned when he inadvertently swallowed, and he calls himself a fool. 

The tentacles appear to be intrigued by his penis, by the way it thickens further under their caress. Holmes squirms and moans in muffled protest as they creep beneath the rest of his clothing, finding their way to bare skin. It feels exquisite against his cock and he ruts helplessly, caught between trying to pull away and desiring more. There is a burning itch sliding through his veins, and he breathes heavily through his nose as a noticeable patch of wet develops on his crotch.

He is relieved that he cannot speak when the tentacles explore further, sliding between his thighs, inciting more pleasure mingled with fear as one probes at his anus.

And that is when the door opens.

Watson stands there, shocked.

Holmes looks up at him and whimpers, eyes wide with pleading. He jerks with humiliation as the tentacle begins to breech him, twisting away from his friend's stunned gaze. The thought that is happening in front of Watson is worst of all, and he begins to struggle again, a series of high-pitched, frantic cries emanating from deep inside of his chest. Not even the tentacle in his mouth can keep him quiet.

"Holmes!" Apparently shocked out of his silence, Watson drops his bag and rushes across the room. "Dear god, I should have known you would eventually come into my room. Calm down, it is alright." He kneels with effort, wincing, and rests a steadying hand on Holmes's shoulders. "You must let them finish. Once they feed, they will retract."

Desperately, Holmes shakes his head. He does not want to know what this is, what they feed from, or any of the other hundred questions assaulting his mind. He whimpers again, pitifully, as the tentacle inside of him finds the spot that makes him keen with what seems like unerring accuracy. The following sensation is not unlike gentle suction, and he throws his head back and gags.

"Holmes, you must _calm down_ or you will choke. Listen to me!" Watson commands, catching Holmes's face and forcing their eyes to meet. "Breathe with me, old chap, there's a boy. In, out. In, out. In, out."

The steadiness of Watson's repetition is what he focuses on, what Holmes clings to as the tentacle inside of him thickens. There are several around his cock now, sliding around the tip, and he whines in rising desperation. The pleasure is cresting, swelling unbearably, and he can only be taken along as it finally breaks open. Black spots flash across his vision and he shudders helplessly, head tipping back as his body is milked ruthlessly. Watson's hands hold tight to his shoulders, at first bracing and then holding him up when the tentacles suddenly retreat.

"Shh, you're alright, it's alright," Watson murmurs, bringing his trembling friend in close. He holds Holmes in his lap as he ushers the tentacles back into the box and pushes the lid down. 

"Watson," Holmes rasps, "what was - I don't - why -"

"I told you once that I came home from Afghanistan with more baggage than even you realized. I was not being fictitious," says Watson. "I've not fed them since we were so busy on cases, or they would not have been so eager. I am sorry, Holmes."

Holmes merely shakes his head, burrowing in closer to Watson's heat. When he has recovered, he will have a multitude of questions. For the time being, at least he can honestly say that he is no longer bored.


End file.
